


story of a love

by Fogfire



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 12:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16387862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fogfire/pseuds/Fogfire
Summary: a poem like imagine that fits every boy





	story of a love

We met on a Monday,

15th of August, if I remember correctly

(I do – I wrote it all down in my diary).

I had already learnt Heartbreak,

You had too; I saw it in your eyes. 

 

In the beginning, you were mesmerized by… me.

And it was hard to believe, and even harder to resist.

One time, you said, you liked poems, because they were songs without a tune.

And I was your favourite one.

 

Baby, I fell for you. But that was okay. Because you were my net, my parachute, the reason I was falling and the ground I would land on – softly – when the time came.

I had seen heartbreak. I know how it hurts when someone only loves you the way they want it.

And not the way you need it.

 

It took me some time, but I realized,

Just the way you needed it.

And I was there. For you. When you needed me.

 

I remember that I got Skype because of you. I still have it.

My friends think it’s pretty useful that I still know the time difference between the countries you’ve been to while we were… a thing.

Do you still have the book I wrote for you, with a letter for every day you missed me, pictures and traits and little treasure maps for cities I’ve never been to and discovered on google maps.

 

I still have the cup you bought me in France. I drink tea from it every day.

 

It was a Monday, the day you broke up with me.

You had the heart to do it in person, but I think it broke you more than me.

You said “I don’t have the love you need.” You said “I don’t deserve you.” You said “You need more than I can give.”

 

I remember sitting there, on the other end of my kitchen table, seeing you cry. I reached out to you, to comfort you like I had before, but the space between us… stretched into a mile.

Your eyes were empty, when you left, asking me to collect your things and drop them off when you were not at home.

 

I tried to reach you, tried to tell you that what you thought wasn’t true.

We could have turned it around, we could have made it.

But somehow, you had begun to think that you didn’t deserve love.

 

On Monday, 15th of August,

Your friends (you liked to call them your brothers) stopped by;

two sat me down on the very table you broke up with me two weeks ago

to tell me that I should stop trying to convince you to come back, should stop reaching out.

The other two searched my rooms for all your things. They missed my favourite sweatshirt of yours;

it was in the dryer, the necklace you gave me and the cup from France.

 

You’re a thief,

for stealing my heart (you tried to give it back)

But more for trying to steal

all the memories we made.

 

If this was a movie or a book,

I don’t know how the story would have gone on.

I don’t read romantic stories anymore.

 

15 years later

on the streets near my house

on the 15th of August,

I met you again.

 

My daughter was holding my left hand,

My son’s clammy fingers in my right hand

And I felt the heart, that I rebuilt from pieces, thump loudly as I saw the part of me, that you still held cradled in your outstretched arms, 

shining in your eyes. 

 

It didn’t matter than

That I was a widow and you’re a lonely soul.

It didn’t matter that

my shirt had a ice cream stain and the kids needed to pee. 

 

What mattered that,

Even after 15 years

The 15thof August could never fail me

With a heart healing hug and a promise.


End file.
